Tales From Pale Lips
by Pulcherrima
Summary: "There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear" -Thomas Hardy. After Sherlock's death John settles into a dull life, which will never be enough. Meanwhile, Sherlock is also missing something from his life, but he's not sure if he wants it. (post-reichenbach, non-slash, PTSD) First fic, need guidance - please r&r!
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note  
This is my first published story! I know that series 3 will be coming soon (!) but I have been thinking about what might happen, and what I want to see happen, for a while. I know more-or-less where this is going, but I'm away a lot in the next few weeks, so updates may be irregular. As I haven't written fics before, I would appreciate any advice, criticism... feel free to hurl your insults at this!  
_**

**_Disclaimer - obviously, whilst I wish I was smart enough to think of something like that, I do not own Sherlock, or any of it's characters._**

* * *

There had been 1095 days since the unthinkable had happened. John didn't count them, he told himself, but it wasn't difficult to see that since he had been alone for 3 years exactly, it had been 1095 days.

The first year had been the hardest. The first year was the one when the press swarmed all over Baker Street looking for a quote, the one when he had been assaulted in the street by a man who was furious at him, since it was too late to be furious with "the fraud". The first year had been the one when a man with Sherlock's eyes had walked into the clinic and he had broken down, right there in his office, Sherlock's bloodied face flashing before his eyes, with a nurse and a patient looking on, and had shouted at them to leave as tears dripped from his cheeks.

The second year had been a little easier. It was at this time that the graffiti appeared – "I believe in Sherlock Holmes". At first he'd just tried to ignore it, finally taking his therapists advice to move on. But the bright yellow paint that appeared all over London was getting impossible to ignore. Before long he'd worked out that Raz, the graffiti artist who Sherlock had consulted about the Black Lotus case. He'd kept quiet though. People had only just stopped accosting him in the street and asking whether he missed Sherlock, whether he still worked on cases, whether he'd find their cat for them. Perhaps people would forget him, leave him to his grief.

By the third year, life without Sherlock felt almost normal, although he still felt a pang of guilt when he realised that he could go a whole day without thinking about Sherlock. He was settled into his work at the clinic, which was quietly rewarding. There was no way, he had concluded a few months after The Event, that he could ever recreate the sheer adrenalin-fuelled joy that he had experienced working with Sherlock. Instead he settled for mediocrity and peaceful comfort, a commonplace world; the air of an old man, weary with the world and just looking to get through it without being in anyone's way.

He did still read the papers carefully, scanning any crime that took place in London, for though it brought back memories still painful to the touch, it felt right, like his own personal connection with Sherlock. On one murder case he had been so interested that he had actually rung Lestrade (they had kept in touch occasionally, though John couldn't shake off the feeling that Lestrade was only doing so out of deference to Sherlock's memory). He had asked a whole bunch of questions – did they have a motive, where there any blood-stains found in the bathroom – until Lestrade had finally lowered his voice and reminded him what happened last time Scotland Yard had talked to someone about cases. That had shut John up.

Yes, it was a quiet life. A dull life, by his own standards. But, physically unfit for service, mentally unfit for any detective work of his own and weary with the world that seemed to crash and burn whenever he found a pleasant space, maybe, he decided, a quiet life was the best.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Well, after nearly giving up, then going on holiday, then forgetting, I have finally figured out how to write another chapter! I can't believe I actually wrote over a thousand words! I would really appreciate any feedback.**_

_**Again, this is only fanfiction, as unfortunately I don't own Sherlock...**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_

* * *

Far from quiet, far from peace, far from any sort of comfort, a dark shadow flits across the remains of a house. A few drops of blood dampen the ground, mingling with dirt and stones and ash and the memories of what this house held. A bird, unidentifiable in the gloom, tries to settle on a pile of rubble, then thinks better of it and flees from the place, haunted as it is by a menace that laughs at all superstition. The beating of the birds wings startle the shadow, who gasps raggedly and presses himself into a corner, then slides to the ground, ashamed of his fear and pain.

The memories of this broken place are his. They are memories of a young Mycroft Holmes comforting him, when noises like that made him jump. They are memories of finding plants in the garden, testing the earth for metals and searching the cupboards for old jars to hold dubious concoctions. They are memories of a happiness that seems so far away that it is no longer even tangible, and all that is left of it is a tattered ghost, blown about by the winds of hatred and anger.

Another noise, a faint and distant footfall, startles his dirty ears and this time his fear is mixed with determination. For nearly three years he has been hunting down men like these. He has had them imprisoned, with the help of a certain high ranking Government official. In more cases than he would like the justice system has been too flimsy, or they have proved too evasive and dangerous for him, and he has been forced to kill them, leaving them "Missing, presumed dead". Some have simply fled, and are no longer a threat, crippled by a fear of captivity. So it is that after nearly three years only one man remains, yet even after escaping the clutches of so many others, after killing, hunting and beating so many, Sherlock is frightened. This man is more dangerous than any of these others. Trained by the British Military then dishonourably discharged for alcoholism and unprofessional conduct, he was picked up by Moriarty, who recognised his extraordinary talents as a sniper. Sebastian Moran, as he was now called, as he had been forced to drop his previous identity when he entered Moriarty's service, has evaded Sherlock ever since the day his mission began. Almost a year had been wasted searching, interrogating other members of the ring, following leads that went nowhere. Then out of the blue, Mycroft contacted him and told him that their childhood home had burnt to the ground. Whilst it had been empty since their father's death, it was still in the Holmes family, and this was a fact that wasn't concealed. It had been blamed on faulty electrics, and there had been no investigation. It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to figure out who was trying to contact him. Moriarty had favoured the 'artistic' approach; games, puzzles, tea-parties. Moran, on the other hand, liked violence. So for three weeks now Sherlock has been in the area, normally sleeping rough in the grounds.

There is also a more personal reason for Sherlock's fear. Interrogating one of Moriarty's other favourite snipers, he found that Moran was the man made responsible for killing John Watson, though his fall had prevented the deadly shot. To fail tonight would be to fail the man whom he has dedicated these three years to. No, he thinks as he steels his nerves. Tonight will end these three years of hell.

Another footstep, closer this time, startles Sherlock out of his thoughts. Stupid, stupid, letting himself get distracted whilst the stakes are so high. His hand slips to the gun concealed in his pocket, and he tenses, peering round the remains of his mothers bedroom wall. Moran had spotted him earlier, as he was trying to determine whether a different spot on the horizon was moving towards him. The talented sniper had tried to shoot Sherlock whilst his back was turned, but a slight crackle of the leaves (a fox, Sherlock later understood) had made him move slightly and the shot only grazed his arm. Knowing that his cover was blown, at least for now, Moran waited until darkness, and Sherlock waited too, growing tense with nerves and stiff from the cold as blood on his arm congealed stiffly and the pain subsided.

Another shadow breaks the moonlight in front of Sherlock; another bird. His ears strain, trying to catch any tiny movement. There it is, barely a whisper, but audible as the sniper places a foot on the dry ground. It is enough to betray his position. Sherlock slowly and carefully moves towards the drawing room. He has the advantage of a three weeks spent here; he knows where to place his feet in order to be silent. Keeping to the shadows, he moves into a better position. Moran has the same idea. Both creep around one another, like players in a game of chess, trying to predict the next move. Impasse; they both know each other's location, yet neither wants to risk being left a move behind. Then, simultaneously, they move towards a doorway. The kitchen doorway, Sherlock's mind supplies uselessly. A shuffle of leaves. Silently, Sherlock takes a breath, blinks, and moves into the open doorway. Yet at the same time, so does Moran. Face to face at last, Sherlock is the first to move, knocking Moran's legs out from under him before he has fully registered Sherlock's presence. Moran tries to aim his gun from the floor as Sherlock tries to aim his from above, whilst trying to kick Moran's arm. Moran fires as Sherlock's boot comes in contact with his elbow with a sickening crunch, and the gun swerves, the bullet hitting Sherlock in the leg. He dives bleeding behind the remains of the kitchen counter, as Moran jumps up, cradling his arm. Trying to ignore the pain in his leg, Sherlock trains his gun on Moran as he stumbles through the dark wreckage, and fires. The shot should be perfect at such a range but Moran is too fast, and the bullet hits him in the shoulder, knocking him backwards. For a moment all Sherlock can think of is John's injury and the pain it caused him, and the thought of inflicting the same pain on such a hated figure gives him a twisted pleasure. Then Moran is moaning, and, wincing as pain shoots through his injured leg, Sherlock manages to make it to his feet. Both are injured now, Moran seriously so. Sherlock knows that a shoulder wound will bleed out quickly, whilst his leg wound was minor, the bullet having somehow missed any arteries.

Half limping and half falling, Sherlock manages to make it to Moran with his gun drawn and pointed. Yet Moran has somehow lifted his own with his uninjured arm, pointing it from the elbow and grunting with the effort.

Stalemate.

"I'll shoot 'ou. Dn't thin' that 'm kiddin. I'll kill 'ou now." Moran's speech is slurred, and Sherlock knows that he's dying already.

Trying hard and forcing himself to take regular breaths, Sherlock manages to reply "You're dying. I can see from here that your hand is shaking. Don't make empty threats if – "

Moran shoots wildly, the desperation of a dying man, and the bullet misses, disappearing into the charred wooden wall and vanishing into the dark.

Sherlock doesn't even bother trying to kill him, and leaves as fast as his injured leg will let him, the bullets flying wildly over him.

A painful death, he thinks, for a man who caused such pain.


	3. Chapter 3

**What are you doing? – MH**

**Sherlock. – MH**

**Don't act like a child. – MH**

**Reply. – MH**

**Have some courtesy to the person paying your phone bill and saving your life. – MH**

**Shut up. –SH**

**And as you sulk, the good doctor struggles. – MH**

**You have no right to mention him, Mycroft. –SH**

**I won't keep your secret forever. Consider that a warning. –MH**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Wow, my updates are irregular... I'm sorry! Thank you to my wonderful reviewer, bunnydict, who has kept me going on this. **_

_**Again, I don't own Sherlock etc blah blah blah.**_

* * *

Three months after Sherlock left Sebastian Moran dying in a burnt out house deep in the middle of the Hampshire countryside, he is still alone.

To start with, he told himself that he was doing the right thing. It would be foolish, after all, to rush back into his old life without tying every loose end. So he checked and rechecked his database of Moriarty's network, making sure each and every member was dead, imprisoned or had fled from crime. Those who had taken this last option he tracked and researched, to guarantee that they wouldn't pose a threat in the future, though most were only juniors in the organisation, there purely to carry out the dirty work, and with no real loyalty to their employers vast illegal organisation. There wasn't much to do; he had been meticulous in his operations. To his disappointment, it only took him a month.

Then, he decided that he should start doing some small cases again. Nothing major, nothing with the police, only private cases; missing people, cheating husbands and suchlike. He operated over the internet under the pseudonym Peter Blackwall, so that he wouldn't be recognised by clients. He needed some money, he told himself, for whilst Mycroft had helped him, he hated being dependant on his brother. No, correct that, he hated having anything to do with his brother. The incidents leading up to his 'suicide' had not been forgiven or forgotten, just buried, to use as a weapon at the opportune time. At least if he took some small cases he could return to John financially independent, and in the meantime he could shove Mycroft's handouts back in his face. He'd be damned if he was going to live on the help of his brother.

After about two months of this, he had come to a conclusion: that private investigation was pathetic, boring, insipid, worthless. Of course the man is cheating, of course the daughter has run away, did people even think before consulting him? He threw the "Private Investigator" business cards against the wall.

God, he was alone.

_No, wait, why would I think that? I'm Sherlock bloody Holmes, alone is what I have._

When would he learn that those words only lead to one place?

_Friends protect people._

His vision blurred a little, and he picked up the nearest object – a mug – and hurled it at the wall to follow the business cards. A book followed that, then an ashtray, then more books and then just anything he could get his hands on, until the one corner of his poky East London flat was nothing but shards and rubbish.

When did he become so emotional, he asked himself, and a hated voice supplied the answer for him.

_Since you left John._

Suddenly, Sherlock was filled with a powerful, painful, overwhelming longing for the comfort of Baker Street.

**I'll bring a suitcase over. -MH**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Whoops. I'm sorry that it has taken me over a month to update! Anyway, I finally feel that this fic has some direction, so hopefully I'll manage weekly updates from now on.**_

_**Anyway, enjoy!**_

* * *

Mycroft was true to his word. The next morning, after Sherlock had stayed up all night trying and failing to distract himself with the television, a sharp knock at the door heralded the arrival of a smart black leather suitcase. Attached was a note, written on thick paper in calligraphic handwriting.

_You've done well. Go home, Sherlock._

He snorted. Mycroft, proud of him? Mycroft, he was certain, didn't care. Mycroft hated him, hated the irritating, pathetic, useless little brother, who took up so much of his time. The feeling was mutual; he hated Mycroft's smug superiority and success.

His gaze returned to the suitcase. It promised something, a chance to return to his old life, maybe even his old self. Since returning from that horrible final mission, since waiting all night in the burnt out shell of his beloved childhood home, and finally facing the one man whom he had been hunting for three years, he had felt, well, funny. He hadn't been sleeping well, little things had made him jumpy and nervous, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he had done something wrong. However, whenever he tried to remember what, all his mind supplied was the cruelty in Moriarty's eyes, or the writhing, angry body of Moran as he lay dying. Even his mind palace was no help. He felt like there had been an earthquake, and a few shelves of thoughts were still spilled on the floor.

A nagging voice at the back of his mind told him that it was PTSD. Like John had, he mused. But John had been in a war. John had earned his emotional trauma. What had he done? Sure, he had killed people. Sure, he had nearly been killed (the scar left from the deep graze of Moran's bullet served as a constant reminder of this). But it didn't feel like enough. He wasn't suffering, he was just weak. Pathetic. He glanced back at the suitcase. What was he thinking yesterday? He can't return to John. John wouldn't want him back, no matter how badly he wants to be there. John would be furious that Sherlock had left, and disgusted with what he had become. No, he thought, he must remain alone.

* * *

Three miles away, John Watson, formerly of the first Northumberland fusiliers, was also alone. Whilst it wasn't his intention to be so, it didn't bother him. Over the last three years he had grown accustomed to it. As he stumbled from the shower, wrapped in a towel in a way that, even now, reminded him of Sherlock stumbling about the flat in a sheet, his thoughts turned to the young doctor who had started work at the clinic a few weeks before. Sarah had left in search of a better job in Manchester, and in her place was a young, slim, elegant woman named Mary.

Lost in his thoughts about her, he bumped into the coffee table and stumbled, catching himself upon the sofa. He was about to swear with frustration, then he realised the ridiculousness of his predicament, and collapsed into hopeless giggles. He was meant to be grown up, a doctor, responsible! And here he was, so wrapped up in his daydream about a woman that he fell over the furniture. It wasn't that funny, he tried to tell himself, but for some reason his laughter just increased into hopeless mirth. He didn't think he had laughed so hard since that first night with Sherlock, when they had chased through London after the wrong man, and returned back to the flat in fits of laughter and... oh. Suddenly he didn't feel like laughing. He picked himself up from the sofa, knocking one of the pillows, with its distinctive union jack decoration, to the floor. A moment ago he had felt, for the first time in three years, young and full of life, but now? Now he just wanted out.

John contemplated calling in sick, but what good would it do? He would just sit at home and wallow in memories that, even now, were still painful to the touch. Adjusting the towel around his waist, he picked his way back to his bedroom and crumpled onto the bed, trying to pull his thoughts back together.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Woah, two new chapters in one day! If only I could write this much when I do homework!_**

* * *

_Far from quiet, far from peace, far from any sort of comfort, a dark shadow flits across the remains of a house. A few drops of blood dampen the ground, mingling with dirt and stones and ash and the memories of what this house held. A bird, unidentifiable in the gloom, tries to settle on a pile of rubble, then thinks better of it and flees from the place, haunted as it is by a menace that laughs at all superstition. The beating of the birds wings startle the shadow, who gasps raggedly and presses himself into a corner, then slides to the ground, ashamed of his fear and pain. As he tries to calm himself, he sees the bird hovering above him. The bird's wings decay into a ragged, skeletal shadow and it looms over him, its eyes gleaming like Moriarty's._

_"I will burn you, Sherlock Holmes. I will burn the heart out of you."_

_It speaks to him, repeating those words until they have tattooed themselves onto his mind; I will burn you, burn you, burn like the fires of hell which rage in you, because you're me, you're me, and you will burn. His fear escalates; he's hyperventilating, and all the time the voice is getting louder, the vision getting closer, and he can see death itself staring at him, as panic overtakes him and he cries out to the one person who can help him._

_"John! John!"_

_"But John isn't here", the vision reminds him, and it's screaming now, "Because you left him. John probably hates you, John never wants to see you again, and if he does, I won't let him. John deserves a friend who cares, not a friend who leaves. John would never want you, and even if he did, you'll never see him again. Not now."_

_With that the horrific creature descends upon him, and he can feel its raggedy wings enveloping him like cobwebs, tangling his limbs and smothering his head. He's dying and he knows it; the black head of the hell he deserves looms up, leering and grinning, ready to welcome someone as evil as he is, and he tries to run, tries to escape,_

Sherlock sat bold upright, the sheets, damp with sweat, tangled around his legs. He gasped for air, trying to block out the flashing eyes of Moriarty and the head of the vision which has haunted him for some time now. Desperately trying to anchor himself in reality, he looked around the small dark room, and tries to catalogue everything in it. He gazed at the shelves, with their meagre selection of case notes and chemistry books; the wardrobe, missing its door and hung with a few simple shirts and black jackets; the suitcase, still not packed.

The suitcase.

That constant reminder of his inadequacy, it sat there, prodding him to return to John. But how could he? How could he stand in front of John and see what he'd done to him? How could he face the pain he had caused his best friend? How could John ever accept him back, especially as broken and pathetic and disgusting as he was now? A shaft of light broke through the dirty curtains, and illuminated the bed, where he still lay, unable to move from the intensity of the nightmare. He was thankful, at least, that he had found and disabled the camera Mycroft had placed in the flat. Well, he said disabled. He had wrapped it in old newspapers, set light to them, and then thrown the blazing bundle out of the window. Mycroft had taken the hint.

He rolled over, the tears that flowed unbidden down his cheeks soaking into the pillow, and drew his knees up to his chest, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again. Yet the nightmare sank onto him like a crushing weight, and he felt unable to move. So, he just lay there, and let his fear and regret and shame roll over him in waves, and stayed motionless under the sticky sheets.


End file.
